


you a sight to see (kinda somethin' like me)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: + rest of the gang of course, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Day At The Beach, F/M, not quite hate sex but sure as hell not love either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You didn't actually answer the question." </p><p>"You didn't <i>actually</i> ask one," she replies, with healthy touch of irritation.  </p><p>"Here's one," he says, and she fucking <i>hates</i> that she can feel his eyes on the side of her face. "You make a habit of sleeping with people you don't like?" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The one where the universe won't let Raven Reyes forget about this one goddamn hook-up, and the universe is her roommate, Clarke Griffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you a sight to see (kinda somethin' like me)

**Author's Note:**

> so TECHNICALLY, this is a continuation of [some call it arrogant (i call it confident)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7057771). the Ice Mechanic of it all just got way too out of hand, and i didn't want to hijack the original fic with that because the centre of that original premise is Bellarke through and through. 
> 
> HENCE, a separate fic! 
> 
> while it's not really necessary to read 'some call it arrogant', i highly recommend it! y'know, for shits and giggles at these two snarky assholes' expense.
> 
> (title from 'Ego' by Beyoncé)

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you really have to invite _him_ ,” Raven grumbles as she fiddles with the speakers sitting in the open trunk of Bellamy’s car, parked as close to the sand as they could get.

 

Clarke shrugs, mouth curved in a wide, self-satisfied smile. “I like him. Turns out we’re kind of friends now.”

 

“ _You’re_ kind of friends now,” Raven emphasises, glancing up from her work to scowl at the blonde. “ _You._ Why do the rest of us have to suffer?”

 

Clarke grins, clearly unapologetic. “There are literally ten other people here. You don’t even have to _talk_ to him for the rest of the day if you don’t want to.”

 

“I don’t even want to _look_ at him,” Raven gripes, plugging in the last cable and starting to turn knobs. “Why is he even _here_? Would’ve thought the beach was below him, ’cause _clearly_ he thinks he’s some kind of fucking _prince_ —”

 

“I prefer to go with ‘king’, actually.”

 

Clarke laughs at the way Raven immediately stiffens before rolling her eyes.

 

“Good day, _Your Highness_ ,” she grits out, not bothering to turn around.

 

God help her, she just _knows_ he’s smirking his ass off without even having to turn around.

 

“It is, indeed,” Roan’s voice returns smoothly.

 

She _really_ has to stop rolling her eyes so hard. Before she actually strains an optic nerve.

 

“Clarke,” his raspy baritone continues, in a considerably lighter tone, “Bellamy would like to remind you that the keys for the coolers are attached to—”

 

“Oh, right!” Clarke jumps off from where she’d been leaning against the side of the car, Bellamy’s car keys dangling from her fingers. She starts down the beach, her face flushing even though she’s only spent a grand total of five minutes out in the sun so far. “I’ll just— yeah, thanks.”

 

Raven’s just about done setting the sound system up, so she straightens and plugs it into her ancient iPod Classic, scrolling through playlists to test the audio out.

 

She feels Roan come up beside her, but she refuses to spare him a glance, almost scowling at her small iPod screen.

 

“You set this up?”

 

“What, like it’s _hard_?” she retorts, trying to find the playlist she’s made specifically for today. She _vastly_ prefers the original iPod, but the lack of a touchscreen can be annoying at times — especially if one has a tendency to make playlists for everything under the sun. Pun intended.

 

His gaze roves over her creation, a deftly assembled block of treble-sharp and bass-heavy speakers scrounged from friends and eBay. “I wouldn’t call it easy.”

 

She ignores the heat blooming across the back of her neck. It’s probably the sun anyway; she hasn’t had time to apply SPF yet.

 

“I’d say thanks, but I don’t actually care all that much for your opinion,” she replies, in as light a tone as she can manage.

 

He makes a small sound that somehow combines incredulity, smugness and appreciation in barely twenty decibels. "If I didn't know better, Raven, I would say you didn't like me."

 

She looks up at him — jaw set and glare sharp — right as she presses play.  

 

Joan Jett immediately starts screaming through the speakers about all the damns she doesn't give about her bad reputation.

 

"All clear now?" she asks, sickly sweet as she drops the iPod beside the speakers and turns away.

 

He follows her smoothly, so she can feel the sleeve of his thin V-neck tee _just_ brushing against her bare arm. "You didn't actually answer the question."

 

"You didn't _actually_ ask one," she replies with healthy touch of irritation, speeding up just a little to where Lincoln, Bellamy and Miller are working on setting up a second large umbrella while the rest lay out blankets and pass out ice cold beers.

 

"Here's one," he says, and she fucking _hates_ that she can feel his eyes on the side of her face. "You make a habit of sleeping with people you don't like?"

 

"Look," she snaps, whirling around to face him while they're still far away enough from the group so that it’s likely enough that their conversation is going to be drowned out by the Runaways' angry guitars and drums. "Can we just agree right now that you're not going to talk about sex for the rest of the day?"

 

Roan arches a brow. "Is the Green boy a virgin?"

 

Raven rolls her eyes. "Monty gets more dick than you have in your _pants_ , assface," she says, already turning away to rejoin her friends.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

For the next two hours, Roan seems to be keeping to their agreement just fine.

 

He readily joins everyone else in the water, swimming around like some kind of friendly shark.

 

He obliges Harper, Bryan and Lincoln in their challenge to race to a little island further out, even posing good-naturedly on the rock with them for the photo Monty snaps from the shore with Lincoln's professional camera.

 

He drinks two beers and accepts the bags of chips and sandwich triangles Maya passes his way.

 

He plays a couple rounds of Cards Against Humanity. He _wins_ one.

 

He even joins in on Frisbee without so much as a blink.

 

 _Frisbee_.

 

To Raven's utter displeasure and increasing chagrin, the problem isn't Roan at all.  

 

It's _her_.

 

She's satisfied with his apparent willingness to acquiesce to her request to not talk about sex — but apparently, her brain refuses to _acquiesce_ to _shit_ because it's literally _all_ she thinks about.  

 

It's something about the way he slices through the water, smooth and powerful and barely any splashes unless he's intentionally messing around. He stands up in the waist-deep shallows at some point, his head breaking through the water so the water streams down his hair to waterfall across his hard shoulders and down his sculpted chest, like some kind of fucking Disney mermaid with a penis.

 

It's something about the way the sun glints off his wet hair and back when he reaches the little island first, pulling himself out of the water and up onto the rocky surface with a single, effortless motion before turning to grin at his three challengers.

 

It’s something about the way he cracks open a goddamn _beer_.

 

It’s _several_ things about the way he somehow manages to make her unwittingly pick his punch line out of everyone else’s in Cards Against Humanity — not once, not even twice, but _three_ fucking times in a row. He has a knack for landing on just the right combination of debauched, wicked and legitimately humorous to win her vote, and it’s really fucking _annoying_ when she’s supposed to be trying to ignore him.

 

He doesn’t seem to be putting too much effort into sticking close to her — or any effort at all, for that matter. He seems happy enough to join in on whatever activity someone’s calling him over for whether or not she chooses to as well.

 

It doesn’t even really feel like he’s acting any differently towards her than he would any of the others — she doesn’t even catch him checking her out when she strips down to her swimsuit.

 

Not that she _wants_ him to check her out.

 

Still doesn’t stop her from checking him out, though — her gaze dragging over his genuinely impressive body, muscular shoulders and sculpted abs bared to the sun’s rays, rough hand raking through his hair when waterlogged strands escape his short ponytail. If it’s even possible, his icy eyes seem cooler in the heat of the day, even as they’re crinkling in silent amusement as he watches Lincoln try to teach Jasper how to do a standing backflip, with a little help from Miller and Bryan.

 

To be fair, she’s not entirely sure if he’s amused at Jasper’s earnestness, Maya’s visible concern as she looks on from a few feet away, or just the possibility that someone might snap their neck today.

 

Either way, he’s a very, very beautiful man, and he clearly knows it.

 

However, the issue at hand is that _she_ knows it, too.

 

She gets more and more frustrated by the minute, but it’s not so much with the sight of Roan’s hot body. She’s seen good-looking bodies before, in varying degrees of nakedness. She’s never even been that much into _muscles_.

 

It’s the fact that she’s already seen way more of Roan’s skin than what he’s showing now — even had her hands on most of it — and she _still_ can’t seem to find a fucking ounce of chill to save her life.

 

It’s more than a little annoying.

 

“Did you have a particular reason for putting this song in your playlist?” Clarke asks cheekily as she sinks down onto the blanket next to Raven, breathless from taking multiple jump shots with Octavia and Harper.

 

Raven doesn’t bother glaring at her, taking another swig of her beer. “I like unnecessarily long guitar solos.”

 

Clarke grins, stealing her beer can for a sip. “Oh, yeah — I’m sure AC/DC wrote a song called ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ to make a point about _guitar solos_.”

 

“Nice shirt,” Raven shoots back.

 

Clarke flushes, and shoves the beer back at Raven, just barely avoiding spilling it on the light button-down draped around her bare shoulders — the same one Bellamy had been wearing on the drive over.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometime past the three-hour mark, Raven gets up to head to Bellamy’s car to check on the speakers. Her iPod should be fine — she’d jacked the battery to make it last a good deal longer than it’s supposed to — but she’s worried about the souped-up speakers overheating.

 

“I don’t need you to follow me,” she says when Roan falls into step beside her, smelling of salt and sweat and some kind of heat isn’t entirely sun radiation.

 

“No, but I do need the bathroom,” he says, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. She inhales tightly, but there’s not much she can do about the fact that the portable toilets _are_ by the open-air parking area.

 

“Do you listen to any music that doesn’t feature heavy bass and loud drums?” he asks with one brow lifted as they approach the car, Franz Ferdinand getting louder and louder with every step they take.

 

“Not if I can help it,” she says shortly, running a careful hand down the back of the speaker block.

 

She frowns at the telltale signs of overheating, and lowers the volume by a few notches before reaching for the screwdriver and pliers she’s got stowed in the side of the trunk. The left half of the block feels more or less all right. Maybe she can redirect the sound there while she gives the overworked section a few minutes to—

 

“Toilets are that way,” she says bluntly, not looking up from her work save for a sharp gesture across the car park with her pliers.

 

He doesn’t say anything, but she feels him turn away — not before she hears him give a huff, a near-soundless exhalation that almost sounds like a laugh.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They head to a Mexican place about ten minutes from the beach for something between a late lunch and an early dinner. Or, as Jasper proudly calls it, _“first dinner”_.

 

They spend far too much on tacos and quesadillas and large platters of cheesy nachos, ordering more beer and a couple rounds of fruity drinks, the kind with cocktail umbrellas hanging over the rim.

 

Octavia makes everyone save their umbrellas and take photo after terrible photo while holding them up in increasingly ridiculous ways.

 

Miller ends up shredding his and Bryan’s ‘by accident’, but when Monty and Harper’s paper umbrellas end up in pieces, Octavia narrows her eyes at him and tells him to _“knock it the fuck off or your entire beanie collection’s gonna end up in pieces, too”_.  

 

Raven makes sure to choose a seat as far away from Roan as she can manage, but she winds up half-regretting her decision when she finds herself glancing over every five seconds before she can even think about it, let alone stop herself.

 

He exudes the perfect balance of social niceness and smooth charisma, even from all the way down the table.

 

He engages in conversation with just about everyone around him. Not just the group conversations, the ones with three or four people at once. He actually _talks_ with them, one on one.

 

Miller is possibly the only one of the gang with just as big of a problem with back sassing as her, and even _he_ fucking _laughs_ at something Roan says.

 

He sits through the entire dinner with a smile on his face.

 

A _smile_.

 

It’s not _big_ , but it’s constant, and, strangely enough, it seems completely _genuine_.

 

Discomfort knots unsettlingly in her gut when she notices how well even _Bellamy_ seems to be getting along with Roan, nodding and talking and grinning and everything in between.

 

To be fair, Bellamy doesn’t really have anything against Roan by now. Not now that he knows Roan was never actually hitting on Clarke. _Especially_ not now that he and Clarke are officially a couple.

 

Raven doesn’t really have anything against Roan, either.

 

Of course not. For her to have something against him, he’d actually have to _be_ on her radar.

 

Which, he’s not.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

By the time they’re back in the city, the sun’s cleared out of the sky, and everything’s faintly tinted pale yellow from the streetlights. Bellamy turns onto their street, but Raven frowns when he stops by the sidewalk right outside their building.

 

“… again for the ride,” Roan’s saying to Bellamy and Clarke when she pulls her earphones out.

 

“No problem,” Bellamy says, turning in his seat to grin at the other man, bright and fucking _sunny_.

 

Raven rolls her eyes at his evidently good mood, raking her fingers through the loose, mussed locks she’d released from their ponytail halfway through the drive. Officially dating Clarke Griffin has turned Bellamy Blake into a clichéd sap, she tells herself as Roan exits the car.

 

“Tell Murphy I said hey,” she says offhandedly to Bellamy, one hand grabbing her beach tote from the car floor as the other reaches for the door handle.

 

“Will do,” Clarke answers cheerily.

 

Raven stills, fingers curled round the handle.

 

“Say what?” she says after a couple of seconds, brows knitting together.

 

Clarke twists in the passenger seat to face the scowling mechanic in the back. “I’m going with Bellamy to return Murphy’s car. He’ll need help carrying the cooler up to the apartment, anyway.”

 

“Yeah, no way those biceps could manage an _empty box_ ,” Raven says in disbelief, staring at her roommates in disbelief.

 

Bellamy shrugs, still grinning unconcernedly. “It’s a _big_ empty box.”

 

“Pretty big,” Clarke agrees with a pleasant smile. “Raven, you can get Roan back to his car, can’t you?”

 

Her mouth falls open in sudden, appalled revelation. “Oh, you—”

 

“Great, thanks,” Clarke interrupts, features breaking into a wide grin. “We’ll see you when we get home.”

 

“Out, Reyes,” Bellamy adds, making a little shooing motion with his hand that only further stokes her fire of righteous indignation. “Don’t keep the man waiting.”

 

“You little shits,” Raven announces darkly, before wrenching the door open and half-stomping out of the car. She slams the door shut with a lot more force than is necessary, and glares at her smugly grinning roommates through the windows as it pulls away from the kerb.

 

She exhales sharply through her nose before spinning around to face Roan. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder and both his arms full with her homemade sound system, both of which he’d retrieved from the trunk while she’d been getting _fucked over_ by her _dearest fucking friends_.

 

He lifts a brow at her less than pleased expression.

 

“After you,” he says, turning to gesture towards the building entrance with a measured incline of his head.

 

She remains determinedly silent all the way through the lobby and the short elevator ride, barely sparing Roan a sideways glance as he wordlessly follows her down the small corridor to her front door.

 

She reluctantly stops in her tracks to hold the door open for him, avoiding eye contact as he moves past her into the hallway.

 

She clears her throat when he pauses, turning his head to look at her questioningly — without any of the hesitance or uncertainty that usually accompanies questioning glances from other people.

 

“You can just put it here,” she says, brushing past him to lead the way into the living room. She steps aside, giving him plenty of room to set the speaker system down on the worn coffee table.

 

He places it on the low table — the movement so careful that it produces practically no sound — before straightening, one hand going up to adjust the strap of his backpack.

 

“Thanks,” she says after a beat, looking at his big hand loosely holding the thick strap in place over his shoulder instead of at his face.

 

“You’re welcome,” he says — and _something_ in the even cadence of his voice makes her glance up to his face, just to confirm her instant suspicion that he’s apparently _amused_ by something.

 

“ _What_ ,” she half-snaps, turning away to drop her tote onto the couch.

 

“You’re welcome,” he repeats, features arranged into an expression that’s far too blank to be _sincere_. “It’s the response commonly given when one person thanks another.”

 

She grits her teeth, narrowing her eyes at him. “Thanks for the lesson, Colin Firth from _Kingsman_.”

 

“And _Kingsman 2_ ,” he adds gravely, eyes gleaming. “If the rumours are to be believed.”

 

She presses her lips together. She’s not going to smile, no matter how surprised she is by the fact that he actually knows inconsequential shit about silly (okay, _awesome_ ) action movies she happens to enjoy immensely.

 

“Come on,” she says instead, pivoting on her heel to start towards the front door. “Basement’s this way.”

 

They head back down to the lobby and cross it to get to the second, smaller elevator that leads down to the basement and the underground parking lot where he’d left his car in the morning so they could carpool to the beach.

 

“I gotta say,” she finds herself saying as the double doors slide open with a hollow rattling. “You actually did manage to refrain from talking about sex for the rest of the day. I’m almost halfway impressed.”

 

He arches a brow at her as they step out into the basement. It’s small and dark, with just enough space for six parking lots that are almost always left unused. “How would you know what I did or didn’t talk about over dinner?”

 

She flushes, suddenly remembering that she’d been keeping tabs on him from her seat — all the way on the _other_ end of the table.

 

He cocks his head at her, features shifting into something that looks far too pleased for her comfort. “Were you, by any chance, _eavesdropping_?”

 

Her gaze momentarily snaps to his face in horrified shock, and she quickly pulls it away again with a sharp scoff. “Of _course_ not.”

 

The corners of his lips curve upward as he stops in front of what she realises must be his car: a silver Jaguar, unflashy at first glance, but undeniably sleek.

 

“You make a habit of eavesdropping on private conversations?” he asks, his piercing blue eyes glinting under the dim fluorescent lighting.

 

She rolls her eyes and gives an impatient huff, hoping it’s enough to draw attention away from the bloom of heat rising up her neck and across her cheeks. He’s got some fucking _nerve_ to throw her own question back at her.

 

“Only when the person in question is a class ‘A’ jackass,” she retorts, folding her arms across her middle. “You know, when I _really_ don’t like him.”

 

His gaze darkens. “What about sleeping with people you don’t like?” he asks, his voice low and rough. “You make a habit of that?”

 

She swallows, but forces herself to meet his gaze dead-on, tipping her chin up defiantly. “You already asked that one.”

 

He’s suddenly a lot closer. She has to tilt her head some to maintain eye contact. “You didn’t actually answer.”

 

She uncrosses her arms and takes half a step towards him, closing the small gap between them to bring her body almost flush against his. “Let’s find out, then. Open the damn door.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They’re in the backseat within the next minute.

 

She’s on his lap within two.

 

He’s helping her out of her underwear in three.

 

She’s riding his cock as hard and fast as she can in the cramped space within five.

 

She buries her face in his neck when she gets close, too overwhelmed by the swelling surge of sensation to keep up with her relentless rhythm. Without missing a beat, he starts grinding up deep into her, his arms banding around her hips tight to hold her in place, rough fingers pressing urgently into her waist. She keens into his damp skin, breathless and desperate, and comes with a violent shudder.

 

His gaze is heavy on her through the near darkness as they’re pulling clothes back into place.

 

“I should have been prepared,” he says as she’s struggling to yank her underwear back on — a feat made far more complicated when trapped within the confines of a car. “With precautions,” he clarifies at her questioning glance.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says carelessly, finally managing to get her feet through the right holes. “I’m on the pill.”

 

“That is your precaution to take,” he says, a hard edge to his rough voice. “I should have taken mine.”

 

She fumbles blindly with the shorts he’d somehow managed to manoeuvre all the way down the length of her legs, even in their hurried urgency. “Fine, whatever,” she forces out, her still hazy mind preoccupied with the task of attempting to calm her racing heart. “Next time.”

 

She pauses when she’s answered with only silence — a silence that fills the entire space, making her very suddenly and very fully aware of the stickiness clinging to her skin, the wild texture to her sea salt-imbued hair, the prickling weight of two icy blue eyes on her.

 

Fuck. What the _hell_ did she just—

 

“As you wish,” he says, quietly but clearly. A little surprised by his uncharacteristically muted response, she chances a glance at him — and the bastard’s _smirking_.

 

She rolls her eyes, deliberately turning away as she pretends to focus on tugging her shorts up and around her hips. “Shut up,” she huffs, pulling the zipper tab up.

 

He’s already out of the car before she’s even got both feet on the ground, waiting at the hood as she emerges, making sure to step carefully with slightly unsteady feet.

 

“Right,” she says, forcing herself not to fidget as she plasters on a nonchalant expression. “See you around, then.”

 

His eyes spark silver in the dim overhead lighting of the basement. “Yes,” he says, his levelled gaze sharp and steady on hers. “Next time.”

 

She whirls around before her facial features have the time to respond, striding away from him as quickly as she can manage, hopefully without looking like she’s making some kind of escape.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She’s already done with a scalding, cathartic shower and an episode of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ by the time Bellamy and Clarke return.

 

“We’re home,” Clarke’s voice sails in from the hallway, and Raven scrunches her nose in disbelief.

 

She refuses to look up from the TV when she senses them enter the room, Clarke flopping down onto the couch beside her as Bellamy sits on the arm of the couch, dumping his backpack on the floor.

 

“How’s— things?” Clarke asks vaguely.

 

Raven arches a brow. “I should ask _you_ that.”

 

“What?” Bellamy asks, and Raven’s gotta give him some credit. He’s not all bad at pulling off the confused puppy look.

 

Raven finally turns to look at them, both brows now raised. “You guys sure took your time.”

 

Clarke’s brows knit together as Bellamy glances down at her. “What do you mean?” the blonde asks, her voice lilting a little _too_ much.

 

Yeah, Clarke’s probably not as good an actor as her boyfriend clearly is.

 

Raven folds her arms across her middle. “You’re telling me you took well over an _hour_ to get back home. From Murphy’s place. Which is, like, six blocks away.” She looks back and forth between the two, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “You guys know I’m an _actual_ genius, right?”

 

She really should not be surprised at how expediently Clarke gives the jig up, laughing brightly while Bellamy at least has the decency to look _slightly_ rueful. Raven purses her lips in disapproval as Clarke leans in to waggle her eyebrows at her.

 

“ _So_?” Clarke asks suggestively, with a shit-eating grin. “Any… _developments_?”

 

Raven gives her a flat stare. “No, Clarke. I did not bring Roan up to our apartment and fuck him all over our couch.” She feels a slight stab of guilt at the half-truth, but it immediately gives way to the wave of triumph at Bellamy’s uncomfortable grimace, his dark brows pulling together as he glances down at the couch they’re all sitting on. “Sorry to disappoint.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, apparently unfazed by potentially sitting on a surface upon which her roommate was having sex just one hour ago. “Why the hell not?” she demands, shifting to face Raven properly. “It’s definitely a lot more comfortable than the ladies’ bathroom at the bar.”

 

Raven’s gaze snaps to Bellamy, her jaw dropping at his expression of bland agreement. “She fucking _told_ you?!”

 

“It wasn’t too hard to notice, Raven,” Bellamy tells her defensively, one hand coming up to rake through his messy curls. “Anyone with _eyes_ could’ve seen—”

 

“ _When_ ,” Raven grits out.

 

“Night of,” he instantly says, his hand dropping from his head. “She told me, like, the second you went to your room.”

 

Raven drops against the back of the couch, throwing one hand over her closed eyes and groaning loudly.

 

“Will you _relax_ ,” Clarke says, completely unsympathetically. “It’s not like I told _Jasper_. Or Miller.”

 

Raven doesn’t move, except to flip them off with her free hand.

 

“She’s taking it pretty well,” Clarke comments.

 

“I’m just glad nothing’s being thrown or broken,” Bellamy says dryly.

 

“I liked you both better when you were pathetic, pining assholes,” Raven informs them both.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> that's that, and i hope you enjoyed it! i have a feeling i might add a second chapter to this, but i'm not entirely sure just yet. all i know is that my passion for Ice Mechanic is getting to be a real problem.
> 
> thank you if you liked it enough to leave a kudos, ESPECIALLY if you took a sec to leave a comment! would absolutely LOVE to hear what you think!
> 
> come yell with/at me [on tumblr](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com/)!


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